


The Exceptions to a Relative Celibacy

by SolivagantSleepyhead



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (it's really subtle though), (sorry if i couldn't do it a justice), Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Self-Loathing, based off of some really obscure headcanons, brief medical setting, but mostly as a result of a turbulent upbringing, implied asexuality, some pretty warped morals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 23:26:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3465902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolivagantSleepyhead/pseuds/SolivagantSleepyhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time and time again, you tell yourself: This is the last time. <br/>That doesn't make it any more true than it was before. <br/>Because, when you wake up, wrapped in the arms of someone you could never bring yourself to love, <br/>The feeling of the emptiness inside you grows, voracious and wanting.<br/>And you know that it's only a matter of time until you fall right back into the trap that circumstance set for you, <br/>The one you never intended to become so deeply entrenched in. <br/>-------<br/>Really just a vent fic based off of some Kankri headcanons I've held for a while. I'm, like, /moderately/ sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Exceptions to a Relative Celibacy

**Author's Note:**

> based largely off of the whole latent Beforan corruption headcanons, as well as the famous "relative celibacy" (chastity??? im too lazy to look it up rn) quote. in case you're wondering, the first guy kankri sleeps with is about 7-8 sweeps (16 or 17, give or take), and kankri was about 11-12 (human years) at the time. his unofficial name is Everst and he's a mutated green blood. okay? okay.

The earliest recollection you have of being alive is bathed in blinding white. Even innumerable sweeps afterwards, the heavy, oppressive smell of antiseptic shrouding the building still hangs hazily in your senses, as if it were new. You remember the hands touching your wriggler flesh, their cold fingers prodding at you, their chastising tones admonishing you to _stop squirming, Kankri. We’re trying to help you._

You were 3, maybe 4 at the time—the time that you were forced to come to terms with the fact that you were a _mistake_.

Until then, you’d just been _different_ , and you had always known that. The fact that you had no lusus was _different_. Your red blood (far too bright to mistake as maroon) was _different_. The knowledge that your friends and neighbors were growing every single day, growing more than you might ever—that, too, made you _different_.

But, it was only then, in that cold, bright examination room, that you learned that there were words to define trolls like you.

None of them were ever as kind as “different.”

It’s been about a billion sweeps since that first visit to the Correctional Facility, not that time is even a remotely pertinent concept anymore. Even so, the memories of your time there are as fresh in your mind as they ever were. They linger like a washed-in stain on the very edge of your thoughts, dredging back memories that bring bile to your throat. Like a predator, they hide, latent; just waiting for the moment to strike and tear you asunder. They’re near when Porrim insists that you were “lucky” to be “coddled” as you were, as if she had an _iota_ of understanding as to what it was like for you. They’re near when your descendants arrive, and you can hear Aranea chatting excitedly about how peaceful and benevolent Beforan life was, and all you want to do is tear your hair out in barely-contained _frustration_. And, especially, they’re there when your own descendant comes—seeks _you_ out—and, just when you think you’ve found the one person who might understand what it’s like, how it _feels,_ _wholly and truly_ , you open your eyes to find that he’s gone.

And you’re as alone as ever.

…

Despite what your friends assume of you, the Correctional Facility left you with probably the most comprehensive sexual education out of anyone you knew. It was a necessity, after all—the empire couldn’t risk the propagation of a shameful mutant lineage such as your own. By age 4, you knew the workings of sex like the back of your hand, and, most of all, you knew that _you_ were expressly forbidden from ever engaging in it. _Too risky,_ they’d said, and you had believed them for a sweep or two.

Then, you’d met _him_.

He was a mutant, just like you. You met him in the purgatory-esque waiting room before a monthly examination somewhere in your 5th sweep. Speaking to him was like the first breath of air when you stepped from the humidity of the ablution block after a scalding shower. Up until then, honesty was a rarity that you were constantly deprived of. You almost felt guilty drinking it his every word, because it felt like a privilege that you didn’t deserve to have—like a luxury not meant for you.

He was older than you by a few sweeps, and his knowledge of the inner workings of the system had you catching on his every word, enraptured. He was the one who first told you what the doctors really thought you were: a _disgrace_. That was the reason why they forced you to come here, fed you these lies. He taught you that pailing wouldn’t hurt anything but the empire’s pride, and you can still remember that swell of sudden indignation in your gut. That was the first time you ever even _thought_ to be angry with your situation. It hit you so suddenly, the injustice of it all.

Before you knew it, you were at his hive. He undressed you and then himself and you’d fucked, right then and there; entirely too fast and entirely too _early_.

That night stands as your ultimate regret. At the time, you’d thought it was a _great_ idea. You were so _young_ , so impetuous. He had easily convinced you that pailing was this grand gesture, like a gigantic “Fuck you!”to the very people who had been oppressing you and lying to you since you were a child, and you’d been so eager to _do_ something for once—to be anything _but_ a disgrace in someone else’s eyes.

The emptiness that lingered after was like nothing you’ve ever experienced, both in and after life. Every vacant second taunted you with memories, with shame. You filled the silence with the sound of your own voice as best you could. You learned to lecture, and it _helped_. Words became the wall that you built around yourself. When you were speaking, nothing could hurt you; it was light floating on a gentle breeze, and you almost didn’t mind it when people stopped listening, anything not to feel the crushing pressure of your own thoughts rushing inside you.

…

The destruction of your planet left you without a twinge of sadness. The others were devastated; after all, the planet you lost was a prison, but the one they lost was a _home_. You couldn’t comfort them, for you had never experienced a loss in your life.

You could never lose what had never been yours to begin with.

Even with the near constant battle for survival, as well as the question of whether or not success was an _option_ , there remained a lot of free time to spend with your group. It was then that you experienced your first (and last) love.

Latula—even her _name_ feels like poetry as it drops from your lips. Everything about her was perfection to you. Her joie de vivre will forever be unparalleled, especially considering the futility of the circumstances. All in all, Latula was love, personified. You wanted for her like the void longs for the caress of light. You, who had never had a gentle touch in his life, were dying just for a moment of her tenderness.

But, of course, she loved another. You agonized over her for sweeps on end; the one thing you wanted above all else, and you knew that you could never have her.

The worst, however, was not your inevitable rejection, but the itch it left inside you. It set alight that feeling that you had forgotten long ago, and your thoughts were flooded with broken-ended recollections of calloused fingers against your skin. For you, it had been about rebellion; but what about him? Had _he_ wanted _you_ as much as you wanted her, or was it as simple as wanting to get off with someone you knew had no reason to be repulsed with the mere fact of your existence?

You began to comprehend what that emptiness you had felt then was.

…

Towards the end, right before the inevitability of death came to strike down to lot of you, you began to notice Rufioh. Initially, you had been comforted by the fact that (for once), you weren’t the _only_ mutant—the only _mistake_.

However, you very quickly became aware of the fact that the others considered him to be less of a mistake than you were. He tore down everything you had understood as truth for so long—a mutant who was _loved._ And not just that, he was loved _despite_ the horrible things he did. Rufioh cheated on your friend, dumped her like yesterday’s refuse, and left her to a group of people who couldn’t even understand a word she said. The resentment you felt for him wasn’t even intense enough to be mistaken for caliginous hate—you platonically, completely, _hated_ Rufioh Nitram and everything that made him _better than you_.

You can hardly remember when you started seeking him out, but you know that he instantly allowed you to. That in itself was surprising; not only for the fact that he was so loved, his time so desired, but considering the fact that you were, decisively, _not_. Even so, he always seemed eager to make time for you. You would meet together every few days and just sit out and talk, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. It was almost like he _wanted_ you there, and the thrill of that—of being accepted—was a little overwhelming.

Of course, you didn’t love him, you could never. The sting from Latula was too fresh in your heart, but fuck if he didn’t made it so _hard_ for you to hate him.

Your relationship was fairly close, but in a secluded sort of way. There was an unspoken agreement between you two: he couldn’t harm you in any way, and you couldn’t question his actions. It was easy, clean, and the finality of it was pretty comforting.

Of course, there was no way it wouldn’t blow up in your face.

The sound of a knock on your hive door one day had you pulling your exhausted limbs from your recuperacoon to stumble clumsily down the hall. Still sopor-blind and half-asleep, you nearly fall into his arms when you open the door to an over-excited Rufioh. He’s speaking too fast for you to understand, gesticulating wildly and helping walk you to the resting platform. A few key words make it past your heavy haze of hypnagogia: Horuss, Damara, “Not working out”… Basically, enough to have you wresting your eyes open to fix him with an incredulous stare, him speaking all the while.

“What.” You state unintelligently, rubbing your eyes while he runs a hand through his hair, his brows furrowing tightly.

“Kanny, I don’t think I can stay with Horuss anymore.” He says quickly, as if the words physically pain him. “It was nice and all at first and shit, but….it just doesn’t feel right, you get me?”

He looks at you, as if he’s trying to tell you something with his glance. Your throat goes dry. You feel as though you’ve seen that expression before.

“What will you do?” You ask, forcing the words out past the tongue that suddenly feels too big for your mouth. “There isn’t someone else, is there?”

But he doesn’t answer, save for that almost pleading look he’s giving you. There’s this irregular pounding in your chest, like your heart is trying its damndest to tear its path right out of your ribcage and into your lap. His arm is around your shoulders, and it isn’t unusual but it definitely _feels_ so—especially with how close he’s getting and how close you’re _getting_ and _oh god oh god oh god_ —

And, then, you’re kissing him. You unashamedly make out with him, cradled in his arms like you’re actually as dear and as loved as _he_ is, and, maybe, just maybe _this_ is _it,_ the reason why he’s loved and you’re resented. The more rational part of your mind tells you that you should feel ashamed, that he’s just _using_ you, but those are the very things that got him to where he is, aren’t they?

The floor beneath your knees is freezing and unyielding, but you go, once again, _willingly_. He whispers encouragements to you as you take his bulge into your mouth and give him what he came for. The parallels between this and what happened back then are enough to send your stomach flipping, but you choose to ignore it, let your mind go purposefully blank. When he finishes, you swallow as much of his slurry as you can—mostly because you can’t really think of what else to _do_ with it. He moans gratefully all the same, his thick-fingered hand brushing through your hair almost lovingly.

As he comes back down from his orgasm, he smiles fondly at you and pulls you up into his arms on the platform, snuggling you close against his chest like a child. Even if it isn’t real, you’ve never felt so _cherished_ , and the thought of it alone has you slipping into a contented slumber, cuddling close to his body and smiling for the first time since god knows when.

When you wake up, however, he’s gone. No note, no word, and barely a trace to even suggest that he’d _been_ there in the first place.

He’s back with Horuss the next day, and he never mentions it again. He does, however, stop coming to see you.

The empty feeling returns not long after, but this time, you have a better word for it: _used_.

…

You watch Cronus putter around the afterlife endlessly; staring after each person like he’s a starving barkbeast and they’re nothing more than slices of bloodied meat hanging in the butcher shop window.  He’s disgusting, you decide, and choose not to associate with him unless absolutely mandatory.

However, his interest in you only begins to grow with time. You do your best to shelter his extremely tender sense of species-dysphoria (all while avoiding him as much as is physically possible in the inescapable afterlife), but, no matter what hints you drop and how conspicuous they are, he seeks you out willingly time and time again.

Initially, you assume he’s only after you for validation; after all, who better to validate _his_ struggles than the one person nearly as starved for attention as he was? But the way he speaks to you, touches you…it’s a little much. Unlike the others, who he’ll shamelessly flirt with whenever they cross into his field of sight, he’s almost _gentle_ with you, caring, even. He makes an honest effort not to offend you, and not only for the sake of keeping your good grace.

It hits you one day—entirely too late, mind you. Cronus loves you; probably a _lot_. The realization is enough to floor you, after all, you’d trained yourself to the thought that no one _, no one_ could _ever_. Yet, there is Cronus (a highblood, no less!) and he desires you so much that it makes you feel physically ill when you catch him gazing at you. He wants you so intensely, so fully, that he makes a point of protecting you from the others, promising you that _he_ cares, and it’s _new_ and _special_ , and somehow _disgustingly wonderful_ and you just—

You give in.

On the 8 zillionth sweep of afterlife, you let Cronus, _Cronus fucking Ampora_ , take you to his concupiscent block—something you had learnt of, all those sweeps ago, in that cold, tomblike hospital.

He lowers you down, pressing sugar-sweet kisses to your lips like you are the most precious thing he has ever known (you really, _really_ hope that you are). Cold fingers caress your flesh reverently as he strips you nude, his eyes roaming over your body as if in worship of it. His touch is so tender, so loving—it breaks something deep within you, and you feel the long-forgotten prickle of tears at the corners your eyes. A soft, pitiful noise makes its way from his throat when he leans over you, holding you close enough to feel the remembered-sensation of a beating heart behind his flesh. He kisses your tears away, whispering soft, worried nothings against your skin.

You’re shaking—you don’t know why. The feeling of his frigid flesh against your own grounds you like nothing else, but, still, your body trembles and shivers.

 _It isn’t like before_ , you think. You know it isn’t, you know _he_ cares, but do _you_? _Do you even have the capacity to feel anything but the most exhausted, platonic resentment for everyone and everything_?

You don’t know—you honestly don’t.

But, just the same, you close your eyes. Let the familiar emptiness back in to your head. _It’s okay_ , you tell him. _I’ll be fine_ , you say, (more for your sake than his).

And the cycle repeats itself.

**Author's Note:**

> please don't bitch me out i will fucking find you i swear


End file.
